The Smiling Hill-Top | Page 8

my
country, impossible, but I am an American by heart if U. Sam can use
me. I was not trained to be a soldier, but in matter of shooting very
seldom I fail to get a rabbit when I want it, more so lately that a box of
shells from 60 cents jumped to $1.00). As a rule the ridents colline are
very monotonous, but when I am home, more so the Sunday, the
"Marseillaise" no where is heard more than here; no animosity against
nobody; Cosmopolitan, ardent admirer of C. Paine! The world is my
country; to do good is my religion!
With fervent wishes of not having need of doctors or lawyers; with best
regards to you and family, I am
Yours respectfully, CONSTANTINO GARIBALDI.
Unquestionably he has humor. After receiving more or less mixed
orders from me, I have heard him softly singing in the courtyard,
"Donna e mobile." I only regret that as a family we aren't musical
enough to assist with the "Sextette" from "Lucia!"
Ever since we came to California we have been lucky about gardeners.
I don't mean as horticulturists, but from the far more important standard
of picturesqueness. Of course no one could equal Garibaldi with the
romance of a distant relationship to the patriot and the grand manner no
rake or hoe could efface, but Banksleigh had his own interest. He was
an Englishman with pale blue eyes that always seemed to be looking
beyond our horizon into space. There was something rather poetic and
ethereal about him. Perhaps he didn't eat enough, or it may have been

the effect of "New Thought," in one of the fifty-seven varieties of
which he was a firm believer. He told me that his astral colors were red
and blue, and that a phrenologist had told him that a bump on the back
of his head indicated that he ought never to buy mining stock. With the
same instinct that undid Bluebeard's and Lot's wives he had tried it, and
is once more back at his job of gardening with an increased respect for
phrenology.
I have a grudge against phrenologists myself. I had a relative who went
to one when he was a young man, and was told that he had a wonderful
baritone voice that he ought to cultivate. Up to that time he had only
played the flute, but afterwards he sang every evening through a long
life.
It distressed Banksleigh to see me lying about in hammocks on the
verandah. He usually managed to give the vines in my neighborhood
extra attention--like Garibaldi, he was a confirmed pruner. He told me
that he wished I would take up New Thought, and was sure that if I
thought strong I'd be strong. I wonder? One summer, lying in bed in a
hospital where the heat was terrific, I found myself repeating over and
over:
"Sabrina fair, Listen where thou art sitting, Under the glassy, cool,
translucent wave,"
and finding it far more cooling than iced orange juice. Was not I
proving Banksleigh's contention? I was thinking cool and I was cool. In
his own case New Thought seemed to work. He always looked ready to
give up forever, and yet he never did.
California is full of people with queer quirks and they aren't confined to
gardeners. I haven't had a hair-dresser who wasn't occult or psychic or
something, from the Colonial Dame with premonitions to the last one,
who had both inspirations and vibrations, and my hair keeps right on
coming out.
I don't quite understand why gardeners should be queer. They say that
cooks invariably become affected in time by so much bending over a

hot stove, and that is easy to understand, but bending over nature ought
to have quite the opposite effect, but it doesn't always. The lady
gardener who laid out the garden that finally replaced our wild-flower
tangle, proved that. She had a voice that would be wonderful in a
shipyard, a firmness and determination that would be an asset to
Congress and a very kind heart, also much taste and infinite knowledge
of the preferences and peculiarites of California plants. Her right-hand
man, "Will," was also odd. Unfortunately, his ideas were almost the
opposite of hers. Before they arrived at our gate sounds of altercation
were only too plain. She liked curves in the walks, he preferred corners;
she liked tangles, he liked regular beds. What we liked seemed to be
going to cut very little figure. All that was lacking was our architect
friend, who had made the sketches and offered various suggestions of
"amusing" things we might do. He also is firm, though his manner is
mild, so the situation would have been even more "amusing" for the
family on the side lines, had